Category: Uncategorized

So, finally ready to start the book I have had in my mind, for years, titled “REAL MEN“

Decided to get it started and my first entry is about one of my favorite families; the Tighes. Hope you enjoy. If you have a tale of a Real Man; father, brother, son…worth telling, send me a note and we can include a chapter.

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Philomena“Philly” Tighe died of cancer at a young age. A lovely Irish lady, Philly left behind her husband, John, and their five young sons to figure the world out (don’t worry, they all did a wonderful job of that).  My father’s family were the next door neighbors to the Tighes and they grieved with them. As years passed, my dad and mom always shared some fun and funny tales of their years living next to the Tighes on Moore Street in Lowell.

When I was 4 years old my parents packed up to build their first home. As the house was being constructed, a chimney needed to be built and bricklayer “Old”  John Tighe was the only man ever considered for the job. John was a cool, calm badass of a man and I became infatuated with his mason craft. Cigar hanging out of his mouth, John carried layer upon layer of bricks up and down a ladder, all day. I was mesmerized. So much so, I attempted to carry bricks around the yard, following John. At first, I grabbed one. Then two. Soon I thought I could carry as many bricks as my mortar-l idol, John .  And…hernia. Pain, surgery, scrotal-area scar…whatever.

It was worth it, Mr. Tighe

Flash forward 36 years.

My annual boys golf trip. Gratuitously titled “The Green Jacket“, a tradition unlike any other. Twenty-five aging married men with children drinking for a weekend and a round of golf might have accidentally broken out. October in the Live Free or Die state for 48 hours. Epic event that lasted nearly two decades. Personally, my last G.J. was 2014 as I just turned the page in to my fourth decade.

Here is why it was my last.

On the first day of our cherished tradition I had a bit of an “accident”.

Rather, another Tighe sent me to the emergency room.

This time the culprit was the youngest of their clan, my old buddy Marty. At a table set for 25 inebriated men we were having a bit of a Craic. Marty, at the head of this banquet table like a Dean Martin Roast, and I to his right, were laughing like the audience of court jesters. Then it took an unexpected turn. A playful slap on my arm from Marty quickly devolved into a more jovial tackle.

Boom.

Ass-over-tea-kettle, my noggin smashed off the nearly 100 year old hotel radiator. As I sat back up in my chair, still belly laughing, I observed the looks of despair on my mates’ faces. My cousin, Kevin, directly across from me, says in his best Boston accent, “Ah, dude, that’s gonna need stitches.”

He was right. Ambulance whisks me of to “We Almost Went to Medical School General Hospital” in East Nowhere, NH for nine badboy sutures just west of my left eye. Dr. Quinn, Almost Medicine Woman, asked me if I had been drinking to which I eloquently responded, “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA”

No local anesthetic needed, Doc.

It was worth it, Marty.

And so, Tighe men, thank you.
Two lifelong scars but two better lifelong memories.

Real men.

100 days in.  Remorse is growing stronger….

Written 1/12/17

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I voted for Donald Trump.

I did.

Like (obviously) many Americans, I was/am ready for a change.  Like any Average Joe, I do not feel as if the country was doing the best it could for me and my family.  I am ready for change.

Step back a year.  As the election race evolved, I became weary.  I can’t vote for Hillary (certainly not Bernie) but reality -TV-crazy-man, Donald Trump, surely won’t win the nomination? No way. I’ll wait this out.  It will be fine.  Someone great will surface.

But s/he didn’t.  Months turned to weeks.  Weeks turned to days.  Holy shit.  Donald Trump is the Republican National Party’s nominee for President of the United States of America?

Ok.  Deep breath.  This could be a good thing?

Right?

Time for  a major change.  An evolution.  Turn things upside down.

Right?

That’s what I tried to buy in to.

As November grew closer I got more and more apprehensive.  Watching the Saturday Night Live-fodder made me even more nervous.  This guy is not built for President.  He is just a giant, orange, obnoxious, rich bully.  He is an asshole.  I hate him.  Everyone hates him.

After 3 debates, it was quite clear Hillary Rodham Clinton would be the (first woman) next President.  I was a bit apathetic, so I entered that voting booth and figured ‘What the hell, Donald.  Have my vote.  Doesn’t matter and anything is better than Hillary.  You can’t win anyway”.  

Right?

And then this shit actually happened.  He won.

Wow.  Well, maybe this is OK?

Right?

Healthy change in the country.  Cant be a bad thing?

Right?

And then I REALLY started to pay attention.  Like a moment of clarity, I was filled with regret.  This guy is a narcissistic, ego-maniacal, shallow, spoiled, childish asswipe…and he will be MY President.  What have I done?

While I am, by no means, an Obama guy, I reflect on where I sit as a human.  Love or hate his politics, Barack Obama appears to be a ‘good dude’.

Right?

A family man. A gentleman.  A good husband and father.  Classy.  The qualities I certainly aspire to possess.  Dare I say Barack Obama was certainly, “Presidential“?

And then I watched this presentation of the Medal of Freedom he bestowed upon his Veep, Joe Biden.  Like Mr. Obama, I am not necessarily a Biden guy either, but if I step back, Joe Biden is the guy you totally want to hang with.

Right?

Fun, funny, charming, charismatic and, most notably, good hearted.  Joe Biden is the guy you would be grilling burgers and sneaky smoking (legal) weed with on a Friday night.  He just is.

And isn’t that what America is about?  Isn’t that what you want a leader to be?  A person like you.  Relatable.  Basic. Kind.  Real.

Right?

And now we have this orange, soulless, baseless,  useless a-hole about to lead the free world.

Donald Trump is the guy who would cheap shot punch you during gym class when no one was looking?  He is guy that cuts you in the lunch line cause his Dad bought the team uniforms.  The guy that pays for his kid to be on the varsity team.  The guy that has no time for a couple Budweisers and some football talk with you.  The guy that actually makes fun of special needs people.  He is a fucking dickhead.  And I cast a vote for him…in the name of change.

And while I had/have no interest in Bill-ary leading our country…this guy?  Big mistake…and I aided it.  Why can’t we just have a “do over”?

Right?

So, I am sorry ladies and gentlemen.  We fucked up.  Can’t we all just poetically exclaim in unison”You’re fired!“?

The Greatest Football Player of All Time, Thomas Edward Patrick Brady (Christ, that might be the greatest freaking NAME of all time!) is about to be mortal.  He is about to become a regular person.  Human.

In the coming days, our beloved TB12 has to join the rest of us “fans” and simply sit back and watch the first 4 weeks of NFL action.  Tom will be sitting at home and watching HIS Patriots play their first four games like he was just another Joe (Montana).  It is hard to imagine.  Hard to digest.  Hard to believe.  And while this is a devastating blow to the Pats, this is the one team in professional sports that can likely manage it, even with TFB sidelined (insert gratuitous FUCK YOU, GOODELL!)

And so, got me thinking.  What to do during this black hole in Boston sports history?  Of course I will remain glued to the TV each week with the rest of you but also…what will Tom be doing?  Per his suspension he can have no contact with his teammates.  Can’t visit the stadium, sit on the sidelines, throw a pass, communicate in any way with anyone in the NFL. (Yeah sure.  As if Coach Bill and J McD don’t have more burner phones hidden than Anthony Weiner’s weiner)

Got thinking more – what would I do if I could spend these 4 weeks with Tom Brady?

(SIDEBAR: If Tom was ever actually willing to host a contest where one lucky fan could spend the suspension month with him, the funds raised would make the entire history of The Jimmy Fund Radiothon look like a 6 year old’s $.25/cup lemonade stand. He’d probably cure cancer too.  Just sayin’.)

What would you do with Tom if you got that opportunity?

The listing of possible activities is endless, but here is my top 10. (all entries are rooted in strict hetero-sexuality, I assure you)

10.  Grooming:

Lets get this one off the table, who would not want to assist in assembling the G.O.A.T. everyday?  What the hell kind of magic potions, ointments, soaps, shampoos, lotions, creams, etc. create that level of magnificence?  Even this new, ah hem, ‘interesting’ hair style.  So what.  I need to know.

9. Go to the mall:

Yup, I bet TB never can do this given his fame, but I want that experience.  I want to walk in to Structure and watch the heads turn.  I want to pepper spray oncoming crazed fans.  I want to be the one protecting him.  I want to hold his hand in the food court while waiting in line for an Orange Julius.

8.  Prank calls to Sports Radio:

I want to be the Bart Simpson or Baba Booey to these stations that loath the Patriots and Tommy Boy.  I would use Tom to legitimize the call and then scream drunken obscenities (see #5 before they could cut us off.  Then #12 and I would giggle and have a quick pillow fight before our next call to glory.

7. 

Enough said here.

6. Tandem-Bike-Ride (could be substituted for Motorcycle with sidecar, but whatever, whatever) -through-Boston-to-Duck-Boats-Sit-on-Good-Will-Hunting-Bench-for-3 -Hours-in-Silence

(or something generally along those lines)

5.  Drinking

Yes, I know, Tom is not completely fueled and energized by booze like the rest of Patriots Nation, but this is fantasy.  In this world, Tom and I hit the bottle hard…every afternoon.  And I’m not talking about ‘sitting around the house sipping on some Bad Larrys’-kind of drinking.  I mean bar hopping from Back Bay to Brighton to Barnstable.  I mean jello shots with every Barstool Smokeshow since 2010.  White Girl wasted.  Watching the Greatest throw up a little late night Moons Over My Hammie in a Denny’s parking lot would be a privilege and an honor.

4.  Get arrested…

…for streaking…at Gillette Stadium, but during a Revolution practice.  Cause…Fuck you twice Goodell!

3.  Visit a Michigan University Sorority House. 

Be like hunting with nuclear weapons.

2. Potato Sack Race Against the Manning Brothers (no, not you Cooper.  Sit back down)

Win, lose or draw the Mannings are going in those sacks and being thrown off the Tobin.

1. PLAY CATCH!  DUH!

Period.

And so, may the month of September fly by as fast as the salmon of Capistrano!

GO PATS!!!!

 

Dedicated to Botto, Ellen, Boogie, Skeets, Shauno and the rest of you dedicated educators

(Reblog from 2013, because laziness is the hallmark of starting school)

No matter your color, creed, political affiliation or ethnicity when you hear the phrase “back to school” it elicits an emotion.  From the time we can comprehend the concept until we are in our golden years those three words mean something to just about everyone; especially students, teachers and parents.  But even for those beyond the educational starting-line that is “back to school”, the expression conjures up some feeling be it past, present or future.  Every one of us has had to manage the passage of returning to school for some portion of our lives and later, many need to manage this annual happening with our offspring.

With the beginnings of another school year upon us again I began to think about the feelings that are mustered up when we hear those three little words  And so, here is my review of the emotional roller coaster we each ride over the course of our lifetime when we hear that timeless expression.

Age 7: Wonder & Excitement

First grade baby!  Are you kidding me?  What on earth is better than 1st grade?  You have already survived the politics and mind games that you surely confronted in kindergarten.  Now it’s time to party.  No more naps.  No more half days. You have your own little friend posse and you are ready to take it out for a spin.  First grade may be the last grade you enter with no real expectations or demands put upon you.  Show up, shut up and smile…you’ll get straight ‘A’s’.  Fact.

Age 11: Confusion & Uncertainty

Well, you have now dominated elementary school.  You have been to the top of the mountain.  King or Queen of that K-5 hill and now it’s time for the next chapter.  But, not so fast my friend.  It’s not that simple.  Not only are you entering into those years with perhaps the largest age bracket of punks, sneaks and (future) criminals, you are in an all-out war with your hormones.  For the fellas, they are noticing they are growing hair on more than their heads.  What is this?  Not to mention your voice sounds like you are the next of kin of Michael J. Fox and Peter Brady.  Oh and let’s not forget about your, ah hem, newfound acquaintance with your…never mind.  As for the young ladies, you are meeting two new close “friends” and not sure how you should manage their inauguration.  That’s all I really know about girls  (back then and now).  As for the academics?  Spanish?  Algebra?  More than ONE teacher to deal with?  How do I get out of this one?  Junior High sucks…on most levels.

Age 14: Fear & Loathing

Congratulations!  You have managed the daily minefield that was Junior High School but now it’s time to take off the training wheels.  It’s a brave new world. While you almost have your newfound adult form in check, you are now the littlest of tadpoles in the big pond.  For the young men, you are getting pounded by the upper classmen; on the field, in the gym, in the hallways, in the parking lot.  NO escape.  Your only saving grace is there are REAL women here for you to gawk at!  Yeowza!  No more wearing sweatpants to school.  I’ll leave it at that.  And for you poor freshmen girls…that is how you are viewed by your elders; ‘girls’.  Prepare yourself to be mocked ad nauseum by every single older female you come across.  They will judge your clothes, your hair, your shoes, your friends…everything.  Even if you are a squeaky clean all-American girl, you will be mocked and probably be rumored to have made out with the janitor, Carl, before Columbus Day.  For you early developing 9th grade ladies, I always hated you.  Why?  Because you were not wasting your time with a silly co-ed freshmen boy like me when the senior captain of the basketball team named ‘Scooter’ has just asked you to the prom during orientation.

Age 18: Hip Hip HOORAY!!!

You made it!  Graduated high school.  You can vote.  In some places you can drink!  You have big dreams and ambitions.  The world is your oyster.  Oh, here is the really good part for the lucky ones; COLLEGE baby!  On your own.  No more parents and curfews.  New friends to meet.  Ridiculous theme parties. Fraternities. Tailgates.  Awesomeness aplenty.  Going ‘back to school’ for the 18 year old is the apex of life…so far.  Breathe in that higher educational air, start an ultimate Frisbee game, and chug that beer!

Age 21: Depressed & Scared

Where the hell did college go?  What do you mean it’s over?  Was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor?  What do you mean I am not going ‘back to school’?  I need to pay my own bills?  What in God’s name is going on?  Even for you brainy slicksters that continue on to law, med or grad school, the joke is on you.  The school work is harder, the party has ended and, likely, so has your parents’ generosity.  For the rest of you, grab a helmet and welcome to the real world.  It sucks.

Age 30: Jealousy and Bitterness

You are likely at some mid-level job you hate.  You may have gotten married.  You may even have a kid or 2 of your own.  Life has become just too real to fathom.  When you see all those ads for ‘back to school’, you muster up intense feelings of envy and sadness.  You can finally appreciate just how awesome school really was compared to the ‘real world’.  You contemplate if there is any possible human way to turn back the clock?  There isn’t.  Put your head down…you are in for a long haul.

Age 40:  Hopefulness and Joy

By 40, you probably have a few kiddos of your own running around the school hallways.  You have channeled your previous anger and jealousy for the college years into positive feelings of hope and excitement for your children.  For many of us, ‘back to school’ is once again awesome…but for totally different reasons.  Those summer-time-dependents of yours are, once again, someone else’s problem for six hours a day for the next 10 months.  Break out the bubbly!

Age 50:  Oh Crap

By 50, you have two overpowering emotions that you have no idea how you will control and manage when ‘back to school’ is mentioned.  Number 1, my ‘baby’ is leaving for college and 2, how on God’s green earth am I going to pay for it? In a related story, you are middle aged and gross.  BOO!

Age 60: Oh well

The kids are grown up, moved on and no longer your problem; financial or otherwise.  ‘Back to school’?  Who cares?  We are headed for Boca come October anyway.

Age 80: Who’s going back to school?

No really?  I can’t hear very well.

In the immortal words of Billy Madison…

“Oh, Back to school, back to school

To prove to Dad I’m not a fool

I’ve got my lunch packed up, my boots tighed tight

I hope I don’t get in a fight

Oh, Back to school, back to school…”